


A Captain's Duties

by JollyRogue



Category: The Terror (TV 2018), The Terror - Dan Simmons
Genre: Anal Sex, Blow Job, Everyone Being A Total Ho, Francis has a FILTHY mind, He's just fantasizing, Humiliation, Jopson Behaving Badly, M/M, Not Quite Consensual Groping, PWP, Sexual Fantasy, This turned out more cracky than I meant to
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-15
Updated: 2018-08-22
Packaged: 2019-06-27 21:53:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,697
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15694092
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JollyRogue/pseuds/JollyRogue
Summary: Crozier indulges in some very secret, very dirty daydreams.





	1. Chapter 1

Lying down in his bunk late in the evening is both the best and worst part of Captain Francis Crozier's day.

The worst, because even with extra whiskey as a sleeping aid he will lie awake for a good long while, mind aflutter with anxiety and utter helplessness as he takes inventory of their journey to date. It is summer of 1847, and the pack ice shows no signs of relenting. “We're confident to make the passage in a season”, Sir John and his lieutenants boasted back in London two years ago, and where are they now? Beset in the open pack, no safe harbour far and wide, their much-lauded steam engines powerless in the face of frozen elemental force.

The worst, because he is unable to shut Sir John's self-complacent face out of his mind; that stout, proud preacher who'll drone on forever about Divine Providence but refuses to make use of his own God-given common sense to get them out of their predicament, putting the lives of a hundred men at risk. What kind of expedition leader does such a thing? And then he has the gall to insult his second-in-command when Francis urges him to send out a rescue party.

Francis groans into his pillow. Even now, Sir John's words hurt even though he knows that he, Francis, is in the right. But emotions are not rational. Shame is not rational.

The worst, because he can't chase Fitzjames, Sir John's loyal lapdog, from his sleep-deprived brain either. James Fitzjames, who has never regarded Francis with anything more than a look of either disdain or pity. A tall, brazen, polished, arrogant prick whose greatest accomplishment it is to be third-in-command on this journey without any prior Arctic experience. How many cocks did he have to suck to arrive in this position? And how long does his steward have to spend with that curling iron every morning?

But this is also the best part of Francis' day, because however long he might lie awake now, he will fall asleep eventually, and thus escape it all – Sir John's spiteful words and James' judgmental glance, and the misery of being trapped in this God-forsaken arse-end of the world that, if Dante had known it, would have well served as inspiration for his _Inferno_.

The best, because here, in the darkness and privacy of his tiny cabin and under the covers, he can fantasize about an alternate reality where he would deal with those things in a very different manner – less than ethical, but fucking _effective_.

Francis Crozier closes his eyes and takes a deep breath as he allows his hand to slide into his woolen under-drawers.

 

*

 

In this flight of fancy, Sir John has invited him to another dinner on the _Erebus_ , as if their confrontation had never happened. This time Francis is seated next to James, who once more has taken up his favourite dinner activity even before eating. That is, bragging. Good God, has this man still _more_ to tell? At this point, Francis is sure, he must be making those stories up. Not that it would make a great difference, with all the embellishments and exaggerations already in them.

“At this point the fog was so thick that we couldn't see the shore even though the river ...” – here, James describes it with a wide motion of his arm across the table, almost knocking over Le Vesconte's glass in the process – “... was no broader than this! Little did we know that though we couldn't see them, they had already spotted us …”

In their close seating arrangement around the wardroom table, Francis has always felt James' thigh snugly against his own. Now he reaches down to gently grab it under the table.

The others mistake James' sudden pause for one meant to add suspense. They lean in, eager to hear the story's conclusion. Even Sir John is enraptured. James' glance darts at Francis, then quickly back to their company.

Francis gives the length of James' woolen-clad thigh a firm caress.

“And then an arrow flew out and rushed past me, only about an inch from my nose”, the commander continues. “It was not attack yet, just a warning. But at that point we didn't know …”

Francis grins as he pretends to listen, reading James' arrogant, handsome face for signs of disturbance. Clearly, Sir John's and the Royal Navy's golden boy is determined to ignore him.

Francis squeezes him another time, his fingertips on James' inner thigh dangerously close to his groin, before withdrawing his hand.

 

As soon as the stewards have cleared off the dinnerware and the others have left, James confronts him in the empty wardroom. He is blushing, outraged, like a scandalized society lady; and Francis – or rather, the bold, aggressive imaginary Francis who has nothing to lose – enjoys this sight immensely.

“How dare you”, James huffs. “What is wrong with you!? How dare you fondle me like that, as if – like some …” He is startled by Francis' expression. “What the hell are you _grinning_ at?”

“You're right. I'm sorry”, Francis says. He stands close to James, who cannot quite suppress a slight tremble but does not retreat. What a moment – to savour the raw anger on the commander's pretty face, and it's all his own. “Truly sorry. I should've waited till we're alone. Well, now we are.”

With that, he reaches around, swiftly enough to take James by surprise, and cups one of his buttocks. James inhales sharply.

“Right?” Francis growls. “They don't need to know about this.” He gives the trousers-clad behind of the Royal Navy's favourite captain an assertive squeeze, delighting in the promise of warm flesh in his palm, the commander's gasp. For an instant, like the blink of an eye, it appears that James would tear himself loose. But he stays in place, staring at Francis, whose face is now a mere inch from his. Francis can see it reflected there, the certainty that he's won, that he's put this cocky rake in his place. He uses his other hand to grab James' privates. Even through the clothes, the commander's prick feels hot, and when he presses onto it, it reacts with an instant swelling.

James casts his eyes down, then glances back up. Long dark lashes flutter at him, his superior – not in naval hierarchy, but in a more primal aspect. “Francis”, he whispers, but more words elude him.

In his depraved fancy, Francis Crozier is a shameless chaser and at the same time irresistible. He removes his hand from James' bottom to hold the man's finely shaped jaw, forcing him to look at him as his cock hardens in the other hand. “Look at me, James”, he orders.

This was so much easier than expected. But what has he expected, really? It has been clear that this blown-up braggart is just a lost boy desperate for a father figure – clear from the way he fawns over Sir John. Well, fuck Sir John. Francis Crozier is a better leader, a more competent captain than that obtuse, Bible-thumping hippopotamus will ever be!

James obeys. A delicate blush colors his cheeks as he looks at Francis, and his breathing is shallow, as if he's trying to conceal his growing arousal. Francis presses harder, feeling James' manhood, solid and ready, under his touch. James gasps, his hips just barely bucking into Francis' palms – he obviously tries to restrain his body's response. Francis chuckles. “Look at you, getting all hard from a bit of touching.” He enjoys the sight of James' cheeks turn even pinker.

“Francis, please ...”

“What?” He teases him, feeling the length of the commander's rock-hard ridge through the trousers, savouring the heavy breaths that James can't hold back.

James puts a trembling hand onto Francis'. “Not here.”

“Very well.” Francis steps back to admire his handiwork: the usually so spirited, proud younger man all aroused, flustered and silent. “You want more, call on me on the _Terror_.”

 

*

 

Back on his own ship, he tells Thomas Jopson all about it.

“Who would have thought it?” The steward grins, visibly amused as he works to unbutton his captain's waistcoat with experienced, nimble fingers. “I always thought Mr Fitzjames to be more … well, in control, if I may say so, sir.”

“Oh but he is, usually”, Francis replies. “I merely discovered his weakness. And I intend to exploit it. That should temper his vanity a little.”

“Will you … take it all the way, sir?” All of a sudden, Tom sounds a tad concerned.

Francis removes his shirt, hands it to him. “Don't worry, my darling boy. I might fuck him, he'll beg for it soon enough – but you're the only one I make love to.”

Tom Jopson's answer is a relieved smile. He glances up and down the figure of his semi-nude captain. “Do you require anything else, sir?”

Francis does not have to think long. “Well, groping our fine commander has excited me not a little. Disrobe, and get into my bunk.”

 

*

 

In the darkness of his cabin and under the blankets, Francis Crozier has no issues stroking his cock to an eager stand. The fantasy of his steward, that unreasonably handsome lad, taking care of his twisted desires, is enough to do this. In fact, Francis is pretty certain that the real Thomas Jopson would at least seriously consider such measures to keep his captain happy, but naturally that is not something a honorable man can ask of another, or even think of. And – what would be even worse – Francis knows his manhood would fail him, as it's done often in the company of another; an unfortunate, shameful effect from, and compounded by, his drinking habits, melancholy, and ever-mounting goddamned insecurities. Escaping from that secret humiliation into his imagination is his way – perhaps the only possible one – to feel powerful and desirable.

 

*

 

He watches Tom undress, slowly, until his steward is fully naked before him. Naturally, Tom is gorgeous – his pretty face has a wonderful body to match. Broad shoulders gently curving into strong arms. A lithe waist ending in firm, hand-sized buttocks made for thrusting against. Shapely thighs to wrap around and hold onto him. He's not very hairy but it's all in the right places, most notably a narrow dark line from his bellybutton down to his cock, a length that Francis loves to trail with kisses while stroking or fingering him at the same time.

It is a captain's duty to see that his mens' well-being is provided for, and at least in Tom Jopson's case, Francis can make sure of this personally. The Jopson of his fancy has a healthy sexual drive and a need for loving attention that, if Francis were to ignore it, would eventually drive him into the arms of wicked seducers like that rat-faced caulker's mate. And he can't have that.

No, Tom Jopson belongs to him fully, with heart and soul, as certainly as the ice is cold and the sea is vast, and Francis is a lucky man because of it. He removes his own trousers, and climbs into his bunk alongside Tom, trying to keep himself from ravishing him right away. He runs a hand along that silky warm skin, and ever so gently, places a brief, chaste kiss on that inviting mouth, a promise rather than outright seduction.

There is a short pause as the younger man hesitates, then pulls Francis down to him again, kissing him, properly this time, and Francis savours the sensation of silky, warm lips on his own. Tom tastes of sweet desperation as though he has waited too long for just this kiss.

Their hardened pricks touch one another, and he lowers his hips, half lying atop Tom. The younger man moans against Francis's tongue. Francis interrupts the kiss to see into Tom's eyes, and indeed, Tom is returning his gaze with a look of unbridled desire of his own. His adorable, dimpled cheeks are deep pink, his parted lips exhaling quick breaths. “Captain”, he pants, “I want- oh!”

Francis brings his lips to the lad's tender neck, nibbling and tracing its curve down to the sensitive area between neck and shoulder. Tom's breathing picks up pace, and he gasps when Francis licks the skin in that area, and gently scrapes his teeth along it.

“Sir ...!” Tom squirms underneath him, trapped in the disunion of a sensation so delicate and at the same time unbearably ravishing.

Nibbling and sucking with more vigour, Francis searches for that exquisite limit where the pleasure peaks and just teeters on the edge of pain. And he seems to have found it, for Tom's body arches underneath his, moans loud with want. “Please, Captain-!”

Francis admires his work, the blushing red mark on Tom's pale skin, licking it again for good measure. He knows how sensitive Tom is there, knows how merely a breath of air on damp skin can send pleasant shudders throughout his body.

“Captain!” Tom pushes his pelvis against Francis in an unmistakable command. “I want it now. Please.”

“What is it you want, lad?” That view of his beautiful lover beneath him, plus his erection pressed against him – Francis is amazed he still possesses a clear head.

“Take me”, Tom says.

There is a mischievous joy in teasing him. Francis grins. “What do you mean, my boy?”

The steward exhales and stares at Francis, brows furrowed in half embarrassment, half annoyance. “I... I want you inside me. Your... cock in me.” A small, bashful whisper. “Please, Captain.”

To hear these words almost obliterates Francis's reason, and he has to fight to suppress the urge to simply turn Tom over with his big strong hands, to ram his cock into him. Remembering the little bottle of olive oil ready on the wall bookshelf between the ship's knees, he reaches for it, and tells Tom to get atop him, showing him how he wants him to straddle him. The lad complies, kneeling to the sides of Francis's hips.

It is a stunning view, all of Tom's beautiful body right in front of Francis's eyes, and he caresses Tom's sides, pulling him a little closer for better access to these wonderfully round buttocks.

“You want me to ride?” Tom shuffles across Francis' lower belly, teasing his captain's erection wedged in his groin. He loves doing it like this, taking charge of his master for a change, and controlling the intensity of their lovemaking. Constant practice has turned him into an expert in nudging and taunting Francis near the brink of spending until neither of them can handle the anticipation any longer. Francis pours oil over his cock, spreading it with his fingers until those are slippery as well.

Tom reaches behind him awkwardly, grasping Francis's erection and positioning himself over it.

“Wait, wait!” Francis grabs a surprised Tom by the hips. “Impatient, aren't you!?” He pats Tom's bottom. “You should know better by now.” He needs to prepare him; it works best that way even after all this time they've spent together.

“You just want to tease me, sir” Tom says, “as you know I'll be doing to you, don't you?” When Francis's finger enters him he winces a little, then relaxes. The captain observes him closely.

Fingering Tom with one hand he uses his other to stroke his erection, hoping to bring him to the point where the lad would want – no, demand! – all of Francis inside him.

Determined, he searches for that mysterious sweet spot with a probing finger, knowing he's found it when Tom shudders lightly, moaning.

“Is that the place, lad?”

Tom nods, his breathing shallow, and he rocks his abdomen against Francis's ministrations. Francis presses against the elusive spot once more. Oh yeah, he'll drive him wild. Tom gasps and moans, looking at him with wonder and want.

He is so tight inside, his little hole so hot and narrow that Francis is extra careful when he gently nudges a second finger inside, observing Tom's face for any signs of pain or discomfort but finding none. Francis allows himself to get lost in the beautiful sight. Sweat begins to shine on Tom's forehead; and his chest rises and falls, diverting the Captain's attention to small, dark erect nipples. Keeping his fingers in place inside his steward, he licks and teases a nipple at the same time; not a simple task but its effect is not lost on Tom who gasps and winces. His cock twitches, dripping wet and unmistakably ready.

"Captain", Tom pants, "I'm ready. Let me."  
  
_I'll be damned if I can wait._ Francis removes his fingers, and again reaches for the oil, spreading more onto himself for good measure. Then, holding his cock steadily in place, he signals Tom to sink down onto it.  
Little by little, taut heat envelopes his pulsating flesh, and he resists the urge to thrust his pelvis upward. Moments later Tom has taken him up entirely. He sits on Francis's lap, heavy breaths puffing from his parted lips.  
  
"My God", he whispers. Francis stares at him in amazement – it is a sensation almost too exquisite to bear, even after their previous experience in lovemaking, new and raw every time. "Yes", he replies, voice hoarse.  
  
Tom smiles and puts his flat hands onto Francis's chest. Thus holding onto the older man he begins to move. The slick feeling from the oil still elevates the near perfect friction; and Tom moves up and down, as Francis gazes at the sight before him.

"Captain", Tom says, panting between thrusts, "you fit... just perfect." He removes one hand to clasp it around his erection, moving with ease. Francis caresses Tom's sides as if to ascertain how real and true this is, but also simply to feel more of him. He begins to thrust back, pushing his cock upward and vigorously driving it inside the lad.  
  
Tom responds by grabbing his captain's wrists and pressing them down onto the bed above his head. They grin at each other. Sweat dampens his jet-black hair, and he works his legs and thighs as he rides his captain harder, faster.

Francis notes the muscles in those long, toned legs, and realizes how just wild Tom looks – in this moment, the exact opposite of the professional Francis knows in his day-to-day life, untamed and demanding, using his captain for his own pleasure rather than, as he normally does, paying attention to Francis' needs. Tentatively, he tries to free his hands, but Tom holds them down firmly with unconcealed glee, an outrageous liberty for the steward to take but one that Francis happily grants, and him only. It's a sensation he can lose himself in – giving up the lead, relinquishing control – a most relaxing change from his usual daily routine.  
  
The bunk underneath them protests with angry creaks, rivaled only by the obscene, loud slaps of flesh meeting flesh. But Francis remembers that _Terror_ was built as a mortar ship, meant to withstand stronger forces than this. Both pant and moan, and Tom releases his captain's wrists, leans forward, supporting his arms on the bed for better hold as he rocks up and down atop him.  
  
"Captain-!" - a hitching breath - "oh, Captain, I-!"  
  
"Lad, slow down, I'm gonna-"  
  
"Yes, yesyes, come inside- ahh-!"  
  
"Not yet!"  
  
But Tom, who won't be told what to do, not _now_ , is riding him fiercely, sighing and moaning and generally presenting a deliciously debauched sight. As he strokes his erection harder his movements atop Francis slow down. Too fascinated to continue thrusting, Francis watches him come.  
  
The steward's seed lands on the Captain's torso in milky white ribbons. Tom's breath slows down, his movements cease and he looks at his lover; breathless, tired and with a blissful grin on his reddened face.  
  
"Oh, Tom", Francis groans. He begins to thrust upward again, sensing his release near as well. He signals the lad to change positions, to lie on his stomach, a suitable change for his exhausted sweetheart. When Tom lies down on the sheets, his backside before the captain's eyes, Francis moves atop him on all fours. Pushing Tom's sweaty thighs apart with his own he guides himself to the wonderful little hole where he's just invaded him. Pressing the tip of his hard cock against it he notes with amazement how slippery, wet and reddened it is, and how easily it yields now.  
He pushes inside, one hand under Tom's waist to lift him up a few centimeters.Tom moans, clasping the bedsheet.

Grunting, Francis works his way inside and pulls back out in a slow rhythm. The boy's hot insides hold onto him, tight and demanding. Francis thrusts faster, elbows propped up on the bed to Tom's sides, and his labored breaths warm Tom's nape.

How exquisite and maddening, the sensation of his cock grinding into heated, willing flesh!

“Ahhh”, Tom gasps, starting to squirm, then he arches his bottom closer to Francis. A few more fierce thrusts make him cry out with both pleasure and pain. Holding onto the boy's hips, Francis spends himself inside him.

 

*

 

The next day he receives a note from James Fitzjames who is inviting himself to a private supper with the Captain of the _Terror._

 


	2. Chapter 2

Francis Crozier allows the Fitzjames of his queer fancy to barge into his cabin, ignoring gatekeeper Jopson and not even waiting for a response after knocking on the door. James Fitzjames knows he has been expected. He brushes snowflakes from his mantelet greatcoat before handing it to Tom Jopson without even looking at him. Then, standing tall and proud before Francis Crozier, he takes off his cap and Welsh wig – Tom, hands and arms already full, almost drops them – and shakes his head in an elegant motion, chin jutting up, throwing his brunette waves back so they return to their full, luscious state. He looks at Francis, completely unabashed, as he runs a hand through that hair, so thick and dark it is unjust, before glancing sideways at Tom and dismissing him – simply dismissing him, as if Tom was _his_ servant and not Francis'. _The cheek!_

Eyes wide, Thomas Jopson stares at Francis.

Confirming James' inappropiate liberty, just this once, Francis asks his steward to leave them alone.

“Well, Francis.” James looks down on him, quite literally now. “Here I am.”

Francis takes his time for a visual inventory of this arrogant bastard who – this much one has to admit – is quite dashing. James' impeccably white waistcoat stretches snugly over a cream-colored knit pullover over a broad chest. His navy trousers, ending in black boots, emphasize rather than merely fall along his thighs and hips, much like the pantaloons in fashion 25 years ago. Someone like James can wear those so well that one hardly notices the old-fashioned silhouette but only its best, revealing qualities.

“Like what you see, Francis?” He may have been a flustered, indignant maiden under Francis' touch last week, now he presents his most cocky side. But Francis has himself under control; he does not even need a drink.

“To be honest, I don't find you pleasant company, Francis. But I've never been one to refuse a bit of fun. Might as well see what you have to offer.” His smirk is a provocation.

Francis stands close before him, so close that he can feel the man's breath on his face. “Good”, he growls, then – his mouth at James' ear, whispering low and hoarse – “I'll have you begging for my cock in less than fifteen minutes.”

James appears to want to scoff at this ridiculous notion but hesitates, mouth still wide in a – now slightly uncertain – grin.

Francis grins in return, grabs the other man's buttocks with both hands, pulling him close to himself. As James is slightly taller, their nether regions don't exactly align but he can feel the commander's beginning arousal acutely. Before James can utter another quip, he shuts him up with a determined kiss.

Francis is in control. He runs a hand through James' soft hair, clasps the back of his head while the other hand still feels his bottom. Grabbing a handful of hair he jerks the younger man's head back, interrupting the kiss to look him in the eyes. James gasps, half for air and half in surprise. No chance for words – Francis kisses him again, no less forceful this time, and James' lips part in surrender. He feels James' hands paw at his sleeves, his shoulders. “Nnh” – his stifled moan vibrates against Francis' tongue, and Francis senses the fingers tighten, the bulge harden. James Fitzjames is losing himself in the heat of their mouths, kissing back and pushing forward. He might be proud but not too proud to show his growing need.

When they pull away from one another, James' breathing is shallow, his brows slightly furrowed as he stares at the _Terror's_ captain, eyes dark with want. Francis holds his gaze as he removes his stiffly bound neckerchief, and James does the same.

A quick nod in the direction of the bed-cabin. Francis needs to say nothing – he simply goes ahead and James follows him, then slams the door shut.

In the flickering golden light of the cabin that's so much like his own and yet not his, James appears somewhat lost. He holds onto the bunk's handrail as if unsure what to do, looking at Francis expectantly.

“Get onto the bed”, Francis orders.

In the instant James lifts his leg over the railing, Francis slaps him hard onto the bottom. James lets out a surprised yelp that makes Francis almost laugh even now; he looks over his shoulder, mouth agape, but that is the extent of his indignation. He stays quiet, climbing onto the bunk, and Francis follows him. Half falling, half being pulled, he sinks atop the younger man and their lips meet again.

James is bolder now, forcing his tongue against Francis', clutching his hair, his shoulder. The pressure of James' thigh against his groin is delightful, and he pushes between James' legs in return, their hard arousals straining against tight trousers in a tight embrace.

Yet for all his eagerness Francis remembers his resolution – he'll make him beg for it, that insufferable fop. He'll mess up that fine coiffure, _by God_ , he'll tear a button or two from that immaculate white shirt if he has to. James Fitzjames, hotshot of the Royal Navy, will be a hot chaos right here in his bed. And he will be desperate for it.

“Francis”, James pants between kisses, breathless and gasping with every rub against his privates. Trapped as he is beneath the older man he hasn't much freedom of movement but nonetheless tries to feel him yet _more_ , feel him harder; he arches his hips up to hug Francis' thigh with his, burrows his face against Francis' neck and moans against the hot bare skin there. His hands search, frantic and aimless, around Francis' back, then he pushes one arm between their bodies, feeling blindly for what can only be either his own, or Francis' groin.

“You want my cock?” Francis growls, reaching himself for James' crotch and squeezing the solid ridge there. It gives a twitch, no doubt the effect of Francis' deep, hoarse voice and his breath on James' ear, and he continues for good measure. “That's what you want, don't you? A real man, holding you down, feeling you up, giving you what you need?”

“Oh God, Francis ...” James can't help it, he pushes upward against the captain's hand, panting. Francis notices a slight dampness in the fabric, right where he rubs James' aching cock. He shuffles to his knees for better access, and unbuttons those trousers, freeing James' erection – a beautiful specimen, and so hard that the foreskin is almost fully exposing the dripping wet head.

“Francis, what … you ...” Poor James can't form a coherent sentence. He lifts himself up on his elbows to see what the older man is doing there between his legs, and when Francis grabs the commander's prick he closes his eyes, lips pressed tightly together in a last, pointless attempt to suppress an indecent sound. It's a struggle he loses when Francis lowers his head into James' lap, sliding his mouth over that ready cock, and James throws his head back, groaning. “Oh fuck … Oh God ...” His thighs tremble, and Francis has to keep them still – a difficult task while he sucks, but a small price for what he wants: James Fitzjames, a glorious heaving mess, melting like ice under his ministrations.

“Francis”, he gasps between shallow breaths, “I – I ...”

In place of a response Francis takes him in deeper; and with one hand, drags James' trouser flap open further to expose and fondle his stones as well. He presses two fingers against the sensitive place behind them, eliciting a moan.

“God damn it, Francis ...”

“Yeah?”

James swallows; his throat must be rather dry. “Francis, _please_ ...”

“Say the whole sentence.” A firm grip on James' dripping cock, as he continues massaging that sweet spot deep in the valley between arsehole and bollocks – amazing what the right touch there can do! – and watches him squirm.To his great amusement, James seems unable to respond. Francis leans forward, keeping his grip on James as firmly as he can while simultaneously whispering into his ear, “I can't hear you, sweetheart.” He feels the shiver running through James' upper body, the twitch of his prick.

“Just … fuck me already”, the younger man whines.

Francis grins. He withdraws his hand to fumble something from his waistcoat pocket; and James, his fine hair already in disarray and face flustered with lust, stares in confusion.

It is a pocket watch.

“Eight minutes”, Francis says.

James blinks, baffled for a second, then he groans. “You can't be fucking _serious –_ ” But he stares again, utterly befuddled, as Francis pulls the bell cord on the wall.

Seconds later, Thomas Jopson opens the cabin door.

The young steward's friendly face breaks into a wide grin when he sees Commander Fitzjames on his master's bed, all exposed in that most compromising position. He doesn't let his eyes linger for long, and gives his captain his full attention. “Yes, sir?”

Francis pulls Tom towards him, into an awkward kiss over the edge of the bunk, then he turns to a shocked James. “See this? He's my love, my sweetheart.”

“Francis, what the _fuck_ –” James' face glows hot with shame, he tries to reach for a pillow to cover his nakedness but finds none. With a satisfied grin, Francis notices that James' arousal has not abated at all – if anything, the humiliation perhaps only adds to it.

“Convince me”, Francis says, “why I should fuck you, and not him.”

James stares. He brushes a strand of hair from his sweaty forehead. “What …?”

“Do you want my cock!?”

“God damn it, Francis, you know ...” An embarassed chuckle, then he nods in Tom Jopson's direction. “This … really necessary!?”

Tom looks at Francis. Francis nods.

Nothing can have prepared James for what happens next. The young steward, that embodiment of neat professionalism, steps closer to James, smiles sweetly – and slaps him hard across the face. “Wrong answer, floozy!”

James pants in shock. Without words, he gawks first at Francis, then at Tom, eyes wide, touching the side of his face as if he can't quite believe the sting there. That a petty officer, a _steward_ , should hit him, is something he, naturally, cannot reconcile; and it leaves him speechless.

Francis tries again. “What do you want, James?”

It takes James a few seconds to collect himself. “Well … you …! I want you!”

Now Tom gives an order. “Tell him properly!”

“You might want to listen to Mr Jopson”, Francis says. “He knows what he's talking about.”

Tom sighs, as if James, nevermind the great difference in their rank, were some slow-to-understand child that needs patient explaining. He leans forward, whispering to him. “Our Captain doesn't simply fuck anyone. You need to _beg_ for it.”

James looks back at Francis, clearly impatient. “ _Please_ ...”

“The whole sentence!” Francis bellows in his order-giving, Captain's voice.

Not to be out-shouted by his equal in rank, James desperately hits the mattress next to him. “Please, fuck me”, he blurts out. “I want your fucking cock, you fucking _bastard!_ ”

Tom and Francis look at each other. “I think he understands, sir”, Tom asserts with a smug grin.

“Turn around”, Crozier orders.

His command has the desired effect. James rolls over on his shaky limbs, so hastily that he nearly hits his head on the wall, lifting up his arse and trying, awkwardly, to tug his trousers further down at the same time with unsteady hands. Francis opens his own, freeing his member – now equally hard and ready – and presses onto the small of James' back, signaling him to lie on his stomach, face down. His hips look narrow from here, but his arse is just as fine and firm as it previously felt under his hands. Tom has the little glass bottle ready, and pours olive oil into his palm, liberally slicking it all over his captain's cock with his practiced, expert touch; then he watches as Francis straddles James' behind.

  
*

  
  


In real life, Francis Crozier sits in the wardroom of the _Erebus_ , at the table with Sir John and the other officers, opposite James who is telling a story.

Francis has no idea what kind of story it is, or what happens in it. He just watches James' pretty mouth move, his hands waving about, as he imagines what he'd be doing to him in his fantasy, this strapping, fine commander who's too dashing for his own good. In Francis' fancy, there will be a total whore beneath that perfectly dressed, clean-shaven, neatly coiffured façade – James who would willingly lie under him, squirming and panting and begging to be buggered as Francis frigs his oiled cock forth and back between his arse-cheeks …

James' glance meets his, and for a moment, James pauses. Francis realizes he has been staring. He quickly looks away, and takes a sip from his wine glass.

But not only James has noticed. Sir John chuckles, and raises his glass of water. “My dear Francis, you seem particularly taken with James' story today!”

  
  


– the end

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. "Jopson behaving badly" is prolly my new kink..  
> 2\. I think that actually Francis really just wants to feel desired, both with Tom and James.


End file.
